


The Character of Damaged Things

by luftballons



Category: Spider-Gwen (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-24 15:16:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6157831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luftballons/pseuds/luftballons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt Murdock is the Kingpin's right hand man, but that was a spot he had to earn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time they have sex, Edith Piaf is playing. Matt's been listening to French non-stop these days. He's picking it up quickly, his abilities making it easier for him to learn languages than most people. It's a skill that's been useful to him on more than one occasion, but which now is going to make him even more indispensable. That's an important thing to be, indispensable. He intends to prove just how much many times over.  
  
Fisk and Vanessa have been fighting. There's all the signs of it. One is the smell of anger that clings to the other man. It's everywhere, similar to the stench of cigarette smoke, following him around wherever he goes. Fisk is often angry; he hides it well, but it simmers underneath him even on a good day. Matt can always tell, but this is a particular brand of anger is so much _louder_ to his senses. Another is the smell of alcohol, bourbon, which Fisk only drinks on special occasions. He's not drunk, but it's on his breath and he's definitely tipsy. Then there's the sexual tension which seeps of off him in waves, adrenaline and sweat and arousal. Frustration. It's not the first time Matt has smelled it on him.  
  
Normally it wouldn't be in him to ask. Primarily because he simply doesn't care about Fisk and Vanessa. They were on again off again on the best days, but he knows that Fisk is convinced he's going to marry her. He probably will, Vanessa was as much in love with the promise of Fisk's life as she was with the man himself. But she was also a human being – flawed and emotional. Sometimes she played them like cards, other times her emotions played her. It was a big charade Matt had no stake in. He cared about Vanessa only ensofar as she interfered with Fisk's decision making. Whether or not Vanessa and Fisk were having sex was outside of his concern.  
  
Which was to say nothing of what Fisk's reaction would be if Matt indicated that he knew such things. There was information that people weren't _supposed_ know about each other, and this was one of those things. And even if had no way of simply not knowing, he shouldn't bring such things up. All he would do is embarrass Fisk, and Wilson Fisk was not a man who took embarrassment lightly. Matt wasn't so endeared to Fisk yet that he could simply shrug it off, or pretend that his reaction wouldn't strain their relationship. He had to be strategic. But there was strategy, too, in being a sympathetic ear.  
  
Edith Piaf is playing in the background. Matt detests CDs. He had found the record in the 25 cent box at the record store, like no one would ever want it. He could smell French perfume on it, and the smell of the sea behind it. As he ran his fingers over it, he wondered what kind of journey it had taken to get here and when. He contemplated the record for a long time before he even asked what it is or who it's by. He bought it without hesitation. Edith Piaf's voice is shrill and demanding and the record is scratched in more than one place. He can hear every small scratch, every imperfection as the needle glides over them, but he likes them. There's character to the things that are damaged in this record. Edith Piaf slurs her words and sings letters that aren't supposed to be pronounced. _Re-gret-tuh_ she sings, in the style of her time.  
  
“Can I get you a drink?” Matt asks, in spite of himself. Fisk paces back at forth, trying to contain his agitation. He stops when Matt offers, going still.  
  
“A drink?” He repeats, as if he hadn't heard Matt, but Matt knows better.  
  
“Yes, you know – alcohol? Good for relieving the ills of the day?” Matt should also know better than to mouth off to Fisk, but it's not the first time and it won't be the last. Fisk has kept his smartass around this long now, he figures he can keep pushing his luck. But Fisk doesn't even act like Matt said anything at all.  
  
“Yes, hm, a drink, that wouldn't be bad.” Much worse than irritation is melancholy. Matt _detests_ melancholy. It was an emotion that tasted bitter in his mouth – the sadness a special kid of deplorable concoction. There's a hint of desperation, a sprinkle of loneliness, a taste of regret. But it is longing that makes melancholy taste wrong. Especially from Fisk. Longing. Matt frowns and goes to fix him a drink.  
“I can --” Fisk starts, but Matt puts up a hand and shakes his head.  
  
“I'm perfectly capable of pouring a drink into a cup, I'm not crippled as well as blind.” The sarcasm is meant to nip the pity in the bud before it makes its way to Fisk's lips. The only thing worse than melancholy is pity when it's directed at him. He picks up the bottles and shakes them. He has a braille label maker, but he's stubborn and doesn't like to use it. He prefers listening to the liquids and feeling their weight and challenging himself to figure out it without an aid. “Pick your poison, Mr. Fisk.”  
  
There's a moment where Fisk almost seems like he might correct him, might tell him to call him something else but he seems to think better of it. “Brandy?” He asks.  
  
“Brandy it is.” Matt feels his way along the bottles until he finds one with brandy in it, and pours out two glasses, adding in a couple ice cubes. He brings it back and gives one to the other man. “ _Slaut._ ” He says, grinning. His accent is already perfect.  
  
“ _Slaute_ ,” Fisk responds, touching Matt's glass with his own, but there's no mirth of his own behind it. He moves and takes a seat in one of Matt's expensive chairs, making himself comfortable. “I am growing weary, Matthew...” he starts, looking down at his glass. Matt doesn't like it. They don't know each other well enough for this. True, being privy to Fisk's secrets is advantageous; but knowing them and having him think better of his trust is a great way to get murdered overnight.  
  
Matt takes a seat opposite him, setting his own glass on the table instead of drinking more of it. “She'll come back,” he says very suddenly, stopping the other man from continuing. Fisk looks appropriately surprised.  
  
“How did you....?” Matt can feel Fisk's gaze searching his face for some kind of tell, but there isn't one. There isn't ever one. Matt tries to smile sympathetically. He's never been very good at it, it probably comes off a little bit wrong, like he's unsure of what he's doing. Which is true. He hopes the honesty wins him some points. Maybe he even looks adequately embarrassed that he knows these things.  
  
“Lucky guess?” He offers in response. Fisk is suspicious, he can feel it rising over the melancholy and he almost likes it better. Let him be suspicious, if he needs to be.  
  
“Who told you?” Fisk demands, like he might kill the man who let it slip. Matt holds his hands up, shaking his head.  
  
“No one,” he replies. It's the truth, at least, and he's obviously confident in it. “No one said anything. You're just – you're pretty obviously in a bad spot. I mean, if I _blind man_ \--”  
  
“That's enough.” And there it is, the line he shouldn't have crossed. Fisk's anger is directed at him now, at his insolence running his mouth to him like this. Matt laughs though, cold and pushing his luck. He's almost proud of himself to have changed Fisk's mood so easily. Sure, it's a cheap shot riling him up with lackadaisical words, but it's better than whatever speech Fisk was going to give him. Improvising, he's definitely improvising here. But he's always been good at that. Fisk is glaring at him from across the table, and he can feel it even if he can't see it.  
  
“She'll come back,” Matt says again, his tone more serious. He isn't forceful – could never be forceful around Fisk – but he leaves little room for question or doubt.  
  
“You don't know what you're talking about.” Fisk's breathing is a little uneven. His disapproval in this conversation is getting deeper. But Matt has never been afraid of anything in his life.  
  
Suddenly, the record skips and Edith Piaf's voice gets stuck in an obnoxious loop. “Excuse me for a moment --” Matt rushes out the words as he goes to adjust the player. He feels around the ridges in the record to find where to get the needle back on track. It had fallen along one of those scratches, but it wasn't incapable of playing. It just has to be advanced a little bit ahead. Edith Piaf resumes her singing, the violins that accompany her out of tune in that kitschy-nostalgic way you're supposed to adore. The vibrato in her voice sings out above them, through the end of every line. It is endearing, he can't deny that.  
  
“Edith Piaf, isn't it?” Fisk asks, pronouncing her name incorrectly, like an American. Eeed-ith. The vowels are too long, the “th” sound doesn't stumble from the lips of someone whose language doesn't make that sound. He stands and walks over to Matt, leaving his brandy behind. “My mother had this record.” Matt turns to face him. He doesn't need to be facing him to have a conversation with him, but he knows its unnerving to sighted people when he doesn't let them have the visual they're most comfortable with. He doesn't say anything though, letting Fisk continue if he wants. After all, his words had already gotten him him trouble. They were both being conciliatory, here. “I never appreciated it,” he continues, “I always thought she sounded stuffy, but I...” Fisk isn't great at talking about himself. At least the man cuts a more impressive figure in front of his colleagues.  
  
“I'm sure it didn't bother her. Children never appreciate their parents the way they feel they should have as adults,” Matt is stiff, his words strangely even, like they're practiced. There's none of the nonchalant attitude of his earlier words, and it's not entirely for Fisk's benefit.  
  
Fisk takes a step closer.  
  
And, oh god, but Matt can smell the arousal on him. It's close and acute and intoxicating. He can try and deny it all he wants but it's so sweet, so welcoming. And Fisk, he's...nervous? But in that way where he's also tipsy, so the nerves are almost giddy. He wonders how much of it writes itself on Fisk's face. It's hard to focus his senses enough to get a picture when he's surrounded by all of this. He wonders if Fisk is actually going to make a move, or just stand there close contemplating. Matt takes a breath after realizing he'd been holding one for too long.  
  
“You don't understand what it's like,” Fisk says for the second time. Matt, for once, doesn't know what he's supposed to say. He doesn't even know what he's supposed to think about all of this. Or how. How he's supposed to think with all of this. “She's so complicated, Matthew, so emotional. Women are so much more complicated than they have any right to be.”  
  
“I'm not gay,” Matt manages to stammer out, somewhat awkwardly. He meant it as a quip, but his uncertainty colors it too much. He's in over his head. He's not afraid, but not knowing what's going to happen is so strange to him. He doesn't understand it. “I mean, I know what women are like,” he tries to clarify, but it doesn't sound like it's getting any better. He's putting his foot in his mouth and he doesn't know why he's even still speaking.  
  
“I've never seen you with one,” Fisk replies. He doesn't contest the question of sexuality, but whatever he thinks of Matt definitely suggests that he assumes being single is a choice of some kind. There's judgment, but Matt isn't entirely sure of what.  
  
“It's not like I'm a blushing virgin.” Ouch. Not much better, Murdock. He's seriously getting close to giving up while he's ahead. Or maybe just going and downing the rest of his brandy, but Fisk is still there, everywhere in front of him. He floods so much of Matt's senses, his presence as big as everyone always claims of him.  
  
“Who was she?” Fisk is interested, Matt decides, that's what his tone means. But he's interested for some ulterior motive (the arousal, it's definitely the arousal), and Matt is slowly trying to put the pieces together here so he can get the upperhand again.  
  
“A ninja,” at least he manages it with a laugh, like maybe it's just a joke. The kind of 'you wouldn't believe me if I told you, but here it is.' Then again, maybe it is a joke. Maybe he's just being an asshole. His grin certainly says he is, a careful cover on top of everything else.  
  
But Fisk ignores it. Acts like Matt is telling him the truth, like they're having a normal conversation. “Did she play with you like this?”  
  
Matt's reply comes very quiet. “Yes.”  
  
“ _Women,_ ” Fisk says, shaking his head. He puts his hand on Matt's shoulder. Fisk's hands are very large – well, so is all of Fisk, to be fair, but touching him it's that much more obvious. Matt makes a real effort to make his gaze meet Fisk's eyes. He gets close enough, and his glasses help him from seeming otherwise. He hopes it looks meaningful to Fisk. Meaningful is really what he's trying to project here. Fisk clears his throat. “Matthew...” It sounds like what's going to follow is 'I'm not good at this part,' but Fisk doesn't quite get there.  
  
“Yes.” Matt answers, sparing Fisk from having to ask the question. He knows what he's offering him. He keeps his breathing, his heart steady. Fisk's heart is anything but. “Wait here.” He's a little nervous that leaving the other man alone will make him think better of it, but he doesn't really have a choice. Lube and condoms are in his bedroom.  
  
When he comes back, Fisk is waiting expectantly for him. It's relief, not nerves that he feels in the face of it. Fisk doesn't wait, he crosses the room until he's got Matt backing up against a wall. Fisk's heart is pounding in his chest. He's been thinking about this the whole time Matt was gone. “Turn around,” he says, his voice low, almost a growl.  
  
Matt does as he's told.  
  
Fisk pulls at Matt's shirt so he can get his hand up underneath it. Matt would never have expected those large hands to be so gentle as they smooth along the small of his back. It sends a shiver down his spine. It's strange, feeling Fisk map out his skin with his calloused fingers. Fisk could probably kill him with those hands if he really wanted to. Matt had training, but pressed up the wall like this, with Fisk everywhere around him, he knows Fisk had the advantage here. “You're almost as soft as her,” Fisk says quietly, but Matt doesn't like the comparison. He swallows the discomfort. He'd be willing to swallow a lot more to get in Fisk's good graces. “Take off your pants.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” he doesn't miss the way Fisk's heart skips a beat, the way his dick twitches to be called that. No surprises there, really, all of this was always about power. You didn't become the kingpin of crime not wanting people to listen to your every word. He drops his pants and his underwear besides, half-naked for Fisk and waiting for another direction. He's not wearing shoes. He hates shoes, and socks too, really, and in his own home there's no way he's going to be bothered to wear them. It makes it easier to step out of his clothes.  
  
“Get yourself ready for me,” Fisk tells him. Matt hands off the condom and then coats his fingers with lube. He can hear Fisk undoing his fly behind him. He slides a finger into himself. Fisk's sucks in a breath, and Matt can practically taste the brandy and the bourbon in the air. He makes quick work, like he doesn't care about the pain and maybe that's true. When he slides in the second finger, he can hear Fisk running his hand along his cock behind him. He'd already put the condom on himself, now he was just touching himself watching Matt. Of course, Matt has no idea how he must look like this, but he figures it must be pretty good. Every one of Fisk's reactions speaks volumes to it. He didn't expect...well, all of his expectations leading up to this point had failed, so maybe it didn't matter, but he didn't expect Fisk to care about this part at all. Figured that's why he'd made him do it himself. When he takes a third finger, he can smell the precum leaking out of Fisk's cock.  
  
“Fuck --” Matt doesn't mean to say it out loud, and he's surprised by the sound of his own voice, but there's something undeniably nice about making Fisk hard with sight alone. (And an undeniable irony, too, that he does it with the sensory input he can't personally appreciate.) His voice sounds hot and needy from the way he's touching himself, the curse colored with his own tells of desire.  
  
Fisk seems to like _that_ , too. The sound he makes goes straight to Matt's cock, warming him through his whole body. He's so proud of himself that he's doing this to the other man, that he's capable of this. “Are you ready yet?” It's almost a demand. Matt nods quickly, pulling his fingers out. He rushed it, but he doesn't care. Not when Fisk sounds like that, not when his need is so thick and so obvious in the air that it practically envelops him.  
  
When Fisk enters him it's hot and tight and he feels so full. He gasps, shaking only a little bit underneath him. It's not about pain – or maybe it is, but only in the best way. He _likes_ it, likes the feeling of Fisk inside of him. Fisk groans in his ear, leaning heavily against him for a moment before shoving him up against the wall once he seems to be used to what it feels like inside of him. His grip is strong and tight and holds him in place. Matt could slide his way out if he wanted, but he surrenders himself to it. Surrenders himself to whatever Fisk has in mind for how this should go.  
  
Rough. That's what seems to be on his mind now, his hips slam into Matt's ass with every movement, keeping him pinned and held down. Fisk is mostly quiet, save for a few grunts of pleasure, but Matt shows his pleasure for him. He's louder than he'd normally be, but he can feel what it does to Fisk, can feel very twitch of his dick inside of him, every shift in his grip and every catch of his breath. “fuck, fuck – ah, god, yes, _please_.” The plea is so calculated and he's proud of that, too, that he can think through the haze of all of this to be able to play him. It works like a charm – Fisk holds him tighter and fucks him harder, driven with new force behind every action. It hurts, being pinned like this, his dick hard and pressed up against the wall but he doesn't care. It's good. He focuses all of his senses on Fisk and his every movement. That's difficult, too, but it's almost like meditating.  
  
Fisk is panting with exertion behind him, each breath labored but rhythmic. His hands are sure to leave bruises on his shoulder, his hip where he grips him. The idea kind of excites Matt in a way he wasn't sure it could. Fisk is close, hell, Matt is close. His senses always mean everything is so heightened, it makes it that much harder to go for a long time. Luckily for him, Fisk doesn't seem to have it any easier. When Fisk comes, Matt is almost concerned Fisk's hands are going to break him with how tightly he clings to him. Fisk moans low in his throat and comes with a few last couple of jerking moments with his hips. Later, Matt will realize it's the violence, not Fisk's climax that sends him over the edge.  
  
In the aftermath, when he doesn't have the sounds and smell of sex to focus everything on, the needle along the end of the record is deafening. The silence of the room without Edith Piaf to fill it seems immense. Fisk says nothing. Neither of them do, as they right themselves and clean up afterward. Fisk leaves his brandy glass on the table. The smell of him lingers for days in Matt's apartment, and he's not sure what he's going to do about it.  
  
Ten days later, _Le Chat Noir_ 's body is found, a stab wound right through his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Satisfied with the death of his enemy, Wilson Fisk decides to give Matt a job as his personal counsel.

For his graduation, Matthew Murdock receives two things: a letter and an Armani suit. The letter is written out with a very precise ballpoint pen, one that digs into the paper and leaves deep marks that he can read with his fingers. He reads it once and hides it in a secret compartment in his desk. The suit is a gift from Fisk.

“ _My_ lawyer has to wear the best,” Fisk declares as he takes him out to lunch after the ceremony. Matt decides he likes the sound of that. Likes the idea that maybe he is part of something bigger than him. That isn't something he admits easily, but it was just as true about the Hand as it as about Fisk – part of him liked the sense of belonging; whether it was to a teacher or a master or a kingpin. And another part of him still thirsted for more. 

“It's just a suit,” Matt replies, too many years of not caring about material possessions overriding his very real want for them. That gets Fisk to laugh, like he's a naive child who needs to be shown the world. Maybe that's what Fisk thinks about him. He doesn't care. 

“You say that now,” Fisk says, still laughing, like Matt's told a joke. “But you wait, once you try it on – you'll never go back.” 

Truth be told, Matt doesn't doubt it. Fisk doesn't know the extent of his abilities, but he'd be able to feel very fiber in the cloth, everything about it that made up its quality. Hopefully it'll be worth whatever exorbitant price they're asking for it, but that doesn't really matter either. If Fisk wanted to throw money at him, more power to him. The man certainly had money to waste. 

When they go in for the fitting, the men working there treat them like kings. The tailor narrates everything he does, accommodating Matt at every step. Matt wonders if Fisk warned him ahead or if this guy was just used to dealing with blind clients. It's a nice thought, either way, even if his radar sense gives him advantage over regular non-superpowered blind people. It's nice not to have to focus. He can focus on other things, instead.

Fisk is right about the fabric. It feels like heaven under his fingers. The cotton of the shirt a higher thread count than he's ever felt, the wool of the suit completely without imperfection. When he tries on the various suits, even unfitted and off the rack he can't imagine ever wanting to wear anything else. He has no idea what they cost, but there is something powerful in wearing a suit with a respected and expensive label.

“Well?” Fisk asks, later, while they're sharing a brandy at his apartment. “You didn't show me. What did you think?”

“Forgive me that I wasn't thinking about what they _look_ like,” Matt replies, flashing a grin. Fisk no longer bats an eyelash when Matt tries to call him out for sighted things. He knows Matt would do it even if he were a goddamn saint. It's just Matt's sense of humor, a card he plays to excess. It is occasionally tiring. It is also occasionally endearing. “But you'll see them when they're finished. No point until you can get the full experience.” 

“I suppose there's a point to that.” There's also clearly more to what Fisk wants to say, too. Matt can feel a weight between both of them, sitting there heavy and obvious. Fisk struggles as he decides whether or not to bring it up. Matt can feel Fisk watching him, trying to pick up on some kind of sign about whether or not he has a right to go on. That feels silly to him – of course the man can say anything he pleases. There's still such a cognitive dissonance for him that Fisk can be so intimidating in public and so reserved when it's just the two of them. He wonders if it tires Fisk, feeling the weight of his empire on his shoulders, but he also tries not to romanticize it. 

The two of them are quiet for a long time, neither willing to acknowledge it out of stubbornness. Finally, as Fisk finishes off his brandy and sets the glass down, he clears his throat. “Matthew, I know you don't have many people to celebrate this accomplishment with you,” he starts and Matt steels himself against whatever is coming next. He schools his temper enough to hide his frown – pity, _fucking pity_. There were times he wished Stick had been right, that no one would care. It'd be better than being on the receiving end of this. But he doesn't stop Fisk from talking. “But I want you to know that I'm proud of all you've accomplished. And I am... _fortunate_ to have you as my personal counsel.” 

“You can tell me you're fortunate after we've actually won a case,” Matt scoffs, “In the meantime, you're taking a pretty big gamble in my favor. Not that I'm complaining!” There's laughter in his voice, far from taking this seriously, and confidence. Even as he says Fisk might not be making the right decision, his tone indicates he's assured in his own abilities. “But I do think picking your attorney on his great looks alone is maybe not the most appropriate decision you've ever made. Can I submit that as my first piece of advice?” 

“Funny,” Fisk's tone is dry and he sighs a little bit. He's trying, and Matt is doing anything but that. As far as Matt's concerned, it's being flippant or being angry and he's not about to let Fisk have a taste of the latter. “I know you won't disappoint me.” There's a chilling finality to his tone, and that - _that_ is exactly what Matt likes about him. That was the sort of forcefulness that had got him where he is in his life. That had earned him so many terrified admirers and cronies. Matt smiles. Maybe that's the wrong thing to make him happy, or maybe he's just in the correct partnership. 

“And if I do? I'll befall the same fate as your last attorney?” Fisk's last attorney had retired generously, not been offed, and he knows that full well but the dramatic effect is better.

Fisk doesn't humor him. He doesn't even consider the possibility. “Look, ---” 

“I can't---” Matt interjects. Fisk's irritation with him grows. Matt shouldn't do this to him, the man is legitimately trying here. But he can't help himself.

“What I'm trying to say,” every word comes out a little forced, “is that I think our partnership will be fortuitous for both of us, and that.” He stops, taking a breath. Matt can tell his hands are shaking, just a little bit, a mixture of irritation at himself for not being more eloquent and at Matt for his unnecessary comments. “That I am sorry that you do not have anyone to share this with.”

“Aww, but Wilson, I have _you_ ,” Matt delivers it with the most sugar-coated tone he has, far over the top and Fisk finally just stands up and walks away from him. He pretends to busy himself with refilling his glass, but Matt knows it's anger that drove him to it. Fisk has mostly gotten used to his flippancy, but this situation was different. This was raw. Fisk thinks he's doing him a favor. He's wrong, so undeniably, utterly wrong. But it's what he thinks all the same. As a consolation, Matt tacks on, a little softer, “I really don't need anyone else.”

When Fisk laughs, it's bitter, angry. He's not pleased with the way Matt is handling this. The way he taunts him with his comments. “Forget it,” he says, a finality to his tone. Matt wonders if he's going to leave, just like that. Maybe he should've been more careful or more respectful. It's not that he doesn't listen – he hears everything, every shift, every word, every breath between them. He probably understands Fisk's emotions better than the man does himself. But it is a difficult position for him to be in, and concern is a difficult thing to cope with. 

“I mean it.” Matt stands crossing the distance to stand at his side. He reaches out to him, placing a hand on his arm. He fits here well, in his shadow, at his side. “What happened was a long time ago. I don't _feel_ alone. It's not something that affects me.”

“The death of loved ones always affects us, whether we want it to or not.” Fisk's hand shakes where he holds the glass and he sets it down. “The world has taught you to be very strong, Matthew, and I admire that. I do. But we are family, now. And it is okay to need your family.”

Matt likes the sound of that. Not the need, but the idea behind it, of being family. It's always been funny to him, the way the crime syndicates refer to themselves that way. Their vaguely homoerotic subtext as they hugged each other and spoke of each other as real kin. And how meaningless it all was, when they were all just looking for a way to climb over one another on the way to the top. A family of backstabbers, just waiting for the chance to wield the knife. Poetic, really. 

“Don't let me make you go soft,” Matt replies, pulling his hand away, “or our other _family members_ will be out for my blood, and I will be useless to you at the bottom of the river.” He fills up Fisk's glass for him, “Besides, what would Vanessa think, hm? You wasting your affection on me like this.”

“She regrets that she could not be here today,” Fisk replies, like he's only just remembered. Maybe he has. He ignores the rest of what Matt says. “But she sends her regards all the same.” Matt is glad to hear that Fisk's tone doesn't waver. Things must be good between them. That's always a good sign. Not just for Fisk, but pretty much everyone in his life. 

“She's a busy woman. But that's kind of her all the same.” But Matt doesn't want to dwell on this for too long. Not on Vanessa, not on sympathy. Part of him still feels like he hasn't earned the right to the latter from Fisk. He doubts he'll ever stop feeling that way. Better that they have distance.

The letter weighs heavily on his mind. Learning to read kanji had been difficult, but now he could read it as easily as he could English with his fingertips, and there was no mistaking the meaning. Funny, how the characters could have such grace to them when they meant so such foreboding things. How there could be beauty even in destruction. But then again, he'd known that for a long time.

The suit is finished a couple days later, and Matt presents himself to Fisk. It feels like an inspection. Fisk touches the fabric on the sleeves and walks around him, taking stock of the way it fits him, assessing whether or not the tailor had done his job correctly. No, not just that, he's pretty sure Fisk is assessing whether or not Matt looks good in it. 

“Well?” Matt asks, quirking an eyebrow, “How does it look? I'm afraid I'm not sure, myself.”

“It fits you well,” there's approval in his voice. Matt wasn't really looking for it, or at least he didn't think he was, but getting it is nicer than he expected. He tries not to think about it. 

“So what's our first order of business going to be?” He asks instead, focusing rather on a language they can both speak instead of the awkward attempt they'd made the other day. “Granted, I still have to pass the bar so don't get too excited to sue someone until I'm actually certified to practice in the state of New York.”

“We're not going to sue anyone,” Fisk laughs, shaking his head, “No, you do realize most of your work is going to be contracts, don't you?”

“Ah, yes, contracts. A good thing I didn't sleep through that class, isn't it?” He flashes a grin, showing his teeth. “I might remember a thing or two, after all.” 

“I would hope so,” Fisk replies, easily, but there's a note of distraction in his tone like he's not really in it. Adrenaline. There's definitely adrenaline. His heart skipping a beat. The suit must fit pretty well, after all. He's not sure this was really the intended consequence for either of them. “Otherwise, Empire State might really need to rethink their honors system.”

Matt laughs, a smile playing on his lips. Of course he's proud of himself. It's always nice to hear it, though, especially when it's honest like this and not out of some skewed sense of pity. He likes this much better. “Oh, I'm sure that's why you hired me. Of all of the baby lawyers in the world that graduated _summa cum laude_ , the one you're going to have to print everything in braille for was just the right member of your team for _contracts_. Sexy.”

Fisk rolls his eyes – it's wasted on Matt, more or less, but he can get the gist of it from the waves of emotion seeping off the other man. It's a light accent to everything else. Fisk is much more preoccupied by other things. But he's also trying not to be. “The business with Mr. Hardy, the way you handled it....”

“Ah yes,” it's nice to hear Fisk admit it, at least. And what he doesn't say, that he trusts Matt, after that. That's nice, too. “Well, the next time you need something handled quietly and discretely... And by 'something' I mean, of course, contracts. Discretely handled contracts.” 

“I don't understand how you do it,” Fisk says quite suddenly after a moment of silence. He's watching Matt like a wolf ready to devour prey at this point. Matt doesn't hate it. He wonders if that's something Fisk is willing too acknowledge, too. He very much doubts it. 

“How I do what?” Matt asks, even though he knows exactly what Fisk is asking. “How I learned French so quickly? How I was able to graduate with honors? It's simple, really ---”

“How you killed him,” Fisk cuts him off. He moves to stand in front of him, smoothing down his tie and the front of his shirt. He does up the buttons on the jacket for him. “Found him, in the middle of the night, this man no one could find, and left him for dead.”

“That doesn't make for a great bedtime story.” It's hard to deny all the sensory input he's getting from Fisk when he's this close. He knows it's hard for Fisk to deny too. If anything, his slight annoyance at Matt is just making his arousal grow. Matt can only guess at the thoughts going through his mind, but he figures they have a lot to do with holding him down and shutting him up. He's not sure he'd mind that, not really.

“I don't need to remind you that I'm an adult. I can handle the sound of a little bit of violence.” They both know Fisk can handle a lot more than that. But maybe the kinds of cagey statements they had to make in their business just became so routine it was hard to forget to drop pretense.

“You really want to know?” Fisk's heart skips a beat. It isn't just that he _can_ handle it. He _wants_ to hear Matt talk about it. He knows that what Fisk originally was asking was about his powers, but he knows, too, that what Fisk wants now is to hear him talk about it. And he likes that much better. “I chased him along the rooftops of the city, the two of us, flying through the night. He was fast, but I was faster. And his city betrayed him.”

“Did he suffer?” Fisk asks, the anticipation palpable. Hardy had stolen from him. He'd sent Matt for revenge. Fisk licks his lips. His hand is still resting on Matt's body from where he'd been righting his jacket.

“Yes,” Matt's reply comes thick and almost husky. Fisk is so easy to play sometimes, especially when his reactions are so loud to all of Matt's senses. He exploits every one of them. He can hear the blood rushing to Fisk's cock from the way he says it.

“Tell me,” it's a demand, and as he gives it, he runs his hand down Matt's chest and down to his belt, lingering, like that might be a reward if he does as he's told.

The smile Matt gives him is almost sheepish, but that's all for show. He covers Fisk's hand with his own. “I cornered him in an alley,” he gently moves the other man's hand away, and he can feel his frown, his disappointment. “He was so scared,” Matt goes for Fisk's belt, instead, his fingers deft as he undoes it. Fisk sucks in a breath, not expecting this at all, not expecting Matt to want to do this to him. “He begged me not to kill him, talked about his daughter.” Fisk is hard by the time he wraps his hand around him, pushing past the fabric of his pants and underwear. So hot under his fingers, hot and wanting, and Fisk's lips part as he lets out a quiet sigh of relief that he's being touched. It's more than loud enough to Matt's senses. “But it didn't do him any good.”

“It must've been. Nice, hearing him like that,” Fisk replies, the distraction seeping well into his voice by this point. He moves his hips a little into Matt's touch, his body betraying his desire even more than his voice. 

“Fear has a sweet sound like few others, but _begging_ , pleading for his life – this man, who had stolen so much and been so cocky, that was far sweeter.” Matt plays it up for him because he knows what it's doing to him. He can feel it in his hand and taste it in the air. Fisk's reactions are just as nice, and there's something about being so right about this that gets his own blood pumping.

“How did you kill him?” His voice is shaking when he asks it. He reaches over to put his hand on Matt's shoulder, holding on tight as Matt works him over. 

“I stabbed him. He was offering me anything not to, and I drove the blade right into him.” He squeezes his hand around Fisk's dick, putting a little bit of pressure through the whole stroke, “My blade went all the way through his body, spilling his blood and stopping his heart.”

“Yes,” Fisk moans quietly. Matt teases at the slit as precum leaks out, like he's pointing it out. Like he's making it obvious what he's doing to him. But Fisk is too far gone to care about the insolence of lording something like that over him. “He deserved – nothing less, stealing from me.” 

“He was made an example, so no one will be as stupid as he was,” Matt's voice is at a whisper and he steps a little bit closer, like they're sharing some kind of secret. Intimate and close and exactly what Fisk wants. “Now you have me, by your side. No one will ever hurt you again.” A dangerous promise, and one that leaves Fisk clutching him tighter.

“I knew I made the right decision,” he says quietly, his hips shaking as he ruts into Matt's hand. He's close and Matt can hear the strain in his voice and feel it in the hard heat in his hand. “I know you'll --- you'll be so good for all that we want to accomplish.”

“I will be,” Matt replies, sure and confident as anything. “I won't disappoint you.” 

“You'd better not,” where Fisk manages to find an edge to bring to his voice in spite of everything, Matt doesn't know, but it sends a shiver down his spine, “or you'll learn what it means to beg for your life.”

“Is that what you want? To make me beg for you?” Matt laughs, a little coldly, “is that why you wanted to touch me? To hear me fall apart while I explained all of this to you?” If it was, it had definitely backfired on Fisk, because here he was, letting Matt touch him.

“Next time,” Fisk manages with a laugh of his own, as if he's certain there will be one, “next time I'll hear your voice like that.” This time, though, he finishes in Matt's clever hands with a quiet moan, left to catch his breath as Matt grins at him, cocky and pleased with himself. 

“Next time,” Matt agrees, almost teasing him. Fisk is in too good of a mood in the afterglow to correct the behavior. He doesn't ask for anything in return, doesn't try to goad Fisk into touching him. 

They sit and talk as if nothing had happened, draw up plans about the future (and all the contracts they'd soon be writing, of course). Fisk has a vision for this city that Matt knows Fisk's predecessors never had. Fisk _believes_ in what he's doing. It's admirable, almost sweet. Sweet, from a man who had just been brought to completion by the thought of violence. Neither of them were saints.

It's a shame, Matt reflects, once he's at home, running his hand once more along the letter he'd received. A gift from the only real family he had left. The pen that was used was dug into the paper as the characters were drawn, and he almost can feel the emotion of that went into its writing. Something of a detached anger. Emotions threatening to boil as plans come to fruition. Vague excitement. And demand, of course. There was no room for doubt, no question that the answer would be, “yes, of course.”

_Accept Fisk's offer. Dismantle his empire from the inside. New York will be ours. Do not disappoint us._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt visits everyone's favorite District Attorney.

“I'm starting to worry about Stacy,” Fisk says very suddenly. He's sitting in Matt's office. An _office_ , with a corner view of Central Park, or so they tell him. He can't really see anything from the window but he has to assume, given where the building is and where his office is located that the view is really quite spectacular. Fisk had asked him if it was insulting, and Matt had responded only that it was perfect. It gave him so many opportunities to make people squirm when they tried to make small talk. He loved it.

“Hold on,” he finishes up typing his sentence and pulls the screen reader's headphones from his ears. He'd heard Fisk perfectly fine even over the monotone voice, but he looks more or less in his direction now. “Tell me again?”

“Stacy. Officer Stacy. I'm worried about him,” Fisk responds. He moves from the window to take a seat across from Matt. It feels strange, Fisk with his back to the door. It was funny how many cues could come even from seating orders, but it was always Fisk at the head of the table, Matt at his right hand side. The desk-chair power dynamic was a lot different. Definitely strange.

“Okay, send him a get well soon card,” Matt offers but he knows perfectly well that isn't what Fisk is talking about. Fisk knows that too.

“He and Dewolfe are starting to look into things,” Fisk continues. He runs his finger along the edge of Matt's desk. Hardwood and heavy and _expensive_ , like everything this job had given him. “I am..concerned, about what they might find.” Concerned. It's not a word Fisk uses lightly and it's not one he uses lightly now. 

Matt frowns, trying to decide what to do with the information. The admission no longer gives him pause. He and Fisk had been through enough, by now, that they didn't need pretense. Matt knew most, but not all, of Fisk's secrets. And in turned he'd gotten his hands dirty fixing problems as they arose. And this...this was definitely a problem.

But all problems had solutions. 

“Stacy has a daughter,” his voice is calmer, more detached. He doesn't expect anything of it. When they exchange ideas it is normally just that, the two of them mentioning things until someone has a good enough idea or blends enough of them together that they make a solid plan. It is conspiratorial. It is problem solving.

Fisk shakes his head, “she's just a girl. I don't kill little girls because their fathers step over a line once.” 

There's anger that flares inside of Matt, an old bitterness, an old scar, that he doesn't show. He swallows the anger and the retort that's on the tip of his tongue - _no, only little boys_. But that was unfair. Fisk wasn't Silvermane. Fisk hadn't made the call that would've left him bleeding in the alleyway alongside his father. And anyway, he tells himself, it hardly mattered. Hadn't matter before, when he'd made orphans out of children. Hadn't mattered when he'd kidnapped for ransom or tortured. He has never had reservations, why start now?

“Stacy's problem is that he's a good cop,” Fisk continues, when he gets no real answer from Matt. “Too good of a cop. He sees corruption and he's not content to let it not be his problem. He wants to fix everything. And you know what the problem is with that? Foggy Nelson is probably already writing the cases to help him. A good cop with a DA like that under his belt could do a lot of damage if we aren't careful. DeWolfe too. The three of them are going to try and fix something that isn't broken. And do you know what will happen, when they do what they think is best?”

“It won't get that far,” Matt stops him. He'd kill Foggy Nelson first. Or George Stacy or Virginia DeWolfe, or all of them if he had to. “We've dealt with cops like Stacy before. This won't be any different.”

“You're wrong,” Fisk snaps. He's more irritated than Matt thought. No, that's not quite it. He's scared. He's much more afraid than Matt had thought possible. “Stacy isn't like everyone else. He believes in what he's doing.”

“And so do you,” it's an easy reply. Maybe too easy, because Fisk doesn't seem to be any happier for it.

“This is different,” Fisk insists. He stands, moving away from Matt. He walks to the window and stares out towards the park, his nervous energy winding him like a clockwork toy. “I don't like this.”

“Let me take care of it,” Matt stands too, moving towards him, crossing the distance of the room, stepping into Fisk's shadow. 

“Don't touch the girl,” Fisk's voice is hard, a steel to it Matt wasn't expecting. 

“I didn't say --”

“I'm serious, Matthew,” Matt can't began to imagine _why_ Fisk has suddenly come up with a soft-spot for her, or why this seems like such an important thing for him. 

“Fine, I won't touch her,” Matt shrugs, like it doesn't matter. Like his curiosity doesn't matter. It's not his place to question, it never has been. Not here, not with the Hand, not with Stick. He's known that for a long time.

He reaches out, laying his hand on Fisk's arm but Fisk shrugs him off. “Start with information,” he says. The quality of his voice betrays more than his words, tells Matt the things he doesn't say. He doesn't want Matt, not now. Too many other things on his mind, too distracted by George Stacy, by the rest of the family, by Vanessa. It didn't matter.

What did he care, if Fisk wanted him now or never?

“Information. No killing. Don't touch the kid. Anything else you want to add to the list, mom?” The bite of the sarcasm is a little sharper than he intended, but he heads back to his desk all the same, shrugging nonchalantly.

Fisk sighs exasperatedly, but turns not to follow Matt but to head to the door. “Perhaps you will get more work done without me.”

It's childish, but Matt feels an overwhelming need to yell _fine_ as Fisk leaves. He only barely contains himself.

\--- 

“Mr. Nelson?” It is easier to catch flies with honey than with vinegar, and Matt's voice is coated with honey as he knocks on the door. 

“I'm – excuse me just one moment,” comes the reply. It's late. Foggy's secretary has gone home for the evening. Pretty much the whole District Attorney's office has gone home for the evening, but Foggy always works late and he always tells everyone he'll lock up when he does. As far as Matt can tell, Foggy probably lives for the moment when someone comes to his door with an important case in the middle of the night.

So the disappointment is palpable when he opens the door and it's Matt, not some rando with a bleeding heart, on the other side.

“Murdock,” Foggy begins flatly, “what do you want?”

“Tsk, tsk, that's not a very nice way to greet your favorite adversary, is it?” Matt asks, showing himself right on into Foggy's office, cane first, not even bothering to ask Foggy if it's alright.

“You're not my --” Foggy starts to protest, stepping out of the way but still trying to figure out how he can at once manage to be polite and kick a blind lawyer out of his office. Matt can practically hear the gears working in his brain. “What are you doing here?”

Matt gropes his way to a chair, taking his sweet time about finding his way into it. Foggy is glaring at him, knowing full well this isn't how Matt acts in an actual court room where he has the quite frankly _uncanny_ ability to conduct himself with full facilities. But he also doesn't really know how he's supposed to articulate that or call Matt out on it, so he finally gives up and takes a seat as well. 'Well?' His body language asks, demanding an answer.

“How's tricks?” Matt asks, conversationally.

“'How's—' you didn't come here to ask me _How's tricks_ ,” Foggy responds incredulously. The district attorney was quickly losing his composure, which suited Matt just fine.

“Didn't I?” He flashes a grin, it's got a mock-sinister quality to it. He can look very menacing, but that's not what he's going for here. 

“Mr. Murdock, it is two hours past the closing time of this office --”

“That's why it was so quiet,” Matt interrupts, musing.

“And I am _trying_ to get some work done before going home, like I should've done two hours ago,” and really, Foggy is really wishing he had. He would have avoided whatever this was. Whatever was happening between him and Matt Murdock. While he might not be enjoying it, the way he splutters on only brings Matt glee, honestly. Worth it alone to have caught Foggy off guard and listen to him flounder about like this. “So if you really came here just to ask – just to ask me how my day is going, why don't you come back tomorrow during business hours and try again.”

Matt waits. He waits for Foggy to stop talking and he waits for him to stop breathing so hard, and he waits until the silence is so loud in the room that Foggy is about to say something else, that he's about to just attempt to throw Matt out on the street and it's only when Foggy draws in a breath to speak again that Matt finally says, “Am I not allowed to make personal calls, now?”

Foggy's frustration grows louder, but so does his confusion. Unsure why Matt has come to call, now, when it's late and he wants to send him home and he wants never to talk to him again. Unsure why they're still talking and what he's supposed to say to that question. “Look, if you're trying to sue the city or something you know you're in the wrong office.” His tone is flat, unamused. A little deflated, like, maybe if he just stops indulging Matt he'll get out.

“Does it look like I brought papers with me?” Matt asks, “Like I said, I just stopped by to say hello. You're very important, Mr. Nelson.” Foggy sounds infinitely more shocked than he sounds flattered by the compliment. “You keep justice running smoothly, after all. Make sure this city stays safe.” There's just a note of something menacing to his tone and Matt likes the way it sounds quite a bit. A compliment that is a double-edged sword. He can't help how much he loves the irony of it. And, anyway, what is Foggy supposed to say? There's no hard evidence on Fisk and even less on his attorney. 

“It's the policemen and women who keep our city safe,” Foggy shakes his head, “Not me. I just help them finish the work they start.”

“Yes, the good men and women of the force,” Matt doesn't miss a beat, using this as the perfect segue into what he wanted to talk about, “Like George Stacy? He's a good cop, isn't he?”

Foggy's heart is racing in his chest, now. Matt can hear as Foggy panics internally, trying to figure out what the hell Matt Murdock and (by extension) _Wilson Fisk_ wanted with George Stacy. His hand grips the arm of his chair and he takes in a breath like he's weighing his options of what to do with this information. But there's another thought, and Matt knows Foggy isn't stupid enough not to consider it. “Why? Why are you asking me this?” Why tip him off, if the Kingpin had business – good or bad – with Stacy?

“I care about New York,” the reply is simple, as if this is a simple and obvious thing, “And I care about your ability to get your work done. I know we're often opposed in the court room, but I really do admire your work. You know, just because I'm a defense attorney doesn't mean I believe that guilty men should be free on our streets.”

Foggy quirks an eyebrow, unable to hide his surprise at Matt's words. “What do you want?” He asks again. He sounds like a cornered animal, but he's not cornered at all. 

“To have a conversation with a colleague,” Matt stands, moving to sit on the corner of Foggy's desk. If Foggy was going to sound like he's afraid of the proximity, Matt was definitely going to exploit that. 

“I --” Foggy stammers, standing. His chair rolls back against the bookshelf behind him. He reaches for it a little lamely to stop it from nicking the wood any further. “Mr. Murdock – You should go.”

There's something. The barest hint of something else. But it's enough, enough after Matt is already seething from the way Fisk had left things. Enough when he's annoyed that Fisk has put all these stops on their normal way of doing things, being cautious when he shouldn't have to be, tip-toeing around, what? Two cops and _this guy_?

“Do I frighten you?” Matt asks, his voice quieter, like he's trying not to. 

“What kind of a question is that?” Foggy asks, but he's sweating. It's not bad, the smell is even a little bit sweet to his senses.

“You just seem very worried by my being here,” again with the honey. He turns his head away from where Foggy is standing. He would occupy himself by looking at something, but, well. He hopes the effect is somewhat similar anyway. 

“It's late...” but Foggy's reply comes a little lamely this time, like maybe Matt's demeanor is breaking through to him. Like maybe he's considering that Matt is right and this is somehow just a friendly visit and that Matt Murdock is sitting on his desk like that because...because...

“It's hard to keep track of time.” 

“Why are you _here_?” Foggy asks one, last pleading time. He's about to give up this game. Matt can tell. Can tell Foggy wants to give up. He's tired and he wants to go home.

There's a pause. It's for dramatic effect. “I came to talk about George Stacy.”

“No you didn't,” Foggy replies, setting his hand on his desk, like maybe he's going to steady himself with it. It ends up very close to Matt.

“You're right, I didn't,” Matt lies. The lie comes easy. It's so simple to tell people what they want to hear. Foggy's brain is working on something to answer how absurd the entity of this situation is, and that something else was working to answer the rest. Let him forget about Stacy, for now. Let him think that Fisk wants Stacy, or that Stacy is taking dirty money or anything, anything at all. If it got Foggy's heart racing this much, let Foggy think anything he wanted.

“Mr. Murdock...”

“Yes, Mr. Nelson?” He slides his hand along the desk until it brushes up against Foggy's. Surprisingly good aim for a blind guy.

Foggy swallows thickly, but doesn't answer. He's quiet, staring at Matt and trying to decide what to do. Trying to decide how much he'd be fucking up if he just closed that little bit of distance. He slides his hand a fraction of a centimeter and then another and then another until his hand is on top of Matt's and he just breathes, waiting to be reprimanded, waiting to be told he needs to back off. His heart is thudding in his chest and Matt loves the sound of it.

Matt just listens for a moment, taking in the smell of Foggy's growing anticipation. Different though it is from Fisk, quiet and subdued. Like Foggy isn't a man who is used to getting what he wants. But Matt is ready to give it to him. And then all at once he presses forward, free hand coming up to the back of Foggy's head, running his fingers through his hair and holding him, holding him close so when his lips crash into Foggy's he's got no where to go.

Foggy makes a noise like a yelp of surprise but his fingers tighten against Matt's and then his hand finds its way around Matt's waist and Matt feels such overwhelming satisfaction that Foggy reciprocates the kiss, like his tongue has a mind of its own, forcing its way into Matt's mouth like he's wanted to shut him up this way for so long, wanted to wipe that self-satisfied grin off his face. 

Which is fine, really, because maybe Matt needs this too. There's frustration and tension that unfold from him as the District Attorney pulls him close and kisses him harder. Frustration at Fisk for being distant, frustration at himself for the bitterness he felt, frustration at the Hand for putting him in this whole ridiculous situation. Maybe he could use one night where he stopped with all of this ridiculous pretense and let it out. Maybe he could use warm hands and wet mouths and biting teeth.

(Then again, maybe Foggy is too nice to bite.)

He slides his hand from underneath Foggy's and gropes for his waistband. Sure, he could focus his senses and find it without really trying that hard but his head is elsewhere, somewhere between Foggy's warm inviting mouth and wet tongue and the noise that escapes from his lips surprises him when it does. But can he really be blamed? For enjoying what he's getting? And then it's down, down from his belt to his crotch and groping not to find but to hold, squeezing him through his pants.

When Foggy gasps, it's the nicest thing he's heard in a long time. “We can't - -” Foggy stammers out, but he doesn't let go. His hands hold Matt tight towards him and he doesn't try and get away from Matt's wandering fingers.

“There's no one here,” Matt replies, a breathless quality that's not entirely for show. The more he considers this the more he needs it.

“That doesn't mean anything,” Foggy replies, his worry waring with his arousal. Matt squeezes him again and his breath hitches. “Mr. Murdock, you --”

“Yes?” 

“Just what do you intend here?” Foggy tries for a demand and it's almost cute. It comes from fear, Matt knows, fear that he's still going to be hurt. Maybe not in the physical way he'd first assumed when Matt stepped into his office. Maybe he's afraid Matt will just leave him halfway through this, that Matt's just toying with him. 

“I'm going to touch you until you come in my hands.” Matt can't see Foggy's blush but he can hear it and he can feel it. Foggy must be bright red. He's pretty sure no one has ever said anything like that to Foggy Nelson in his life.

“I –um – I, yes. Alright.” 

“Very eloquent of you, counselor.” But now that he's been clearly given the green light, he brings both of his hands down to undo Foggy's belt and his pants, shoving them off his hips and his underwear along with it. He wraps his fingers around Foggy's cock and slides the other hand to his hip. Not holding him, but steadying him. And then he starts to touch him. He fingers slide down his shaft, nimble and focused. Feeling him for the first time like he's trying to get a read on him, mapping out his skin and finding exactly how to touch Foggy in a way that will draw more noises out of him, that will bring something again so sweet from his lips.

With his senses, it's always so easy to tell. He can feel the way Foggy's body tenses in anticipation, the way his muscles move and he shifts just as Matt touches him where he wants. How he likes a little bit of pull through each stroke, followed by gentle, ghosting fingers. How he wants Matt to act a little dangerous, but also a little bit like he's taking care of him.

“What about you, though?” Foggy pants out. He's gripping Matt's waist tight, and the desk tighter. He's trying not to lean all of his weight down against Matt. There's sweat falling from his brow and his hands shake and his hips are shaking and, “oh God,” falls from his lips as Matt runs his thumb along the vein. 

“What about me?” There's something of an edge of Matt's voice. That's the danger, he knows Foggy wants to hear it. He knows there's part of Foggy that wants them to act like they're still adversaries, something in him that, try as he might to pretend otherwise, has always been a little turned on by the way they meet in court. 

“Should I – I could touch you.” Foggy offers, sliding his hand from his waist around to get at Matt's belt. He fumbles with it, and looking down between them to try and find it, his eyes linger on Matt's hand around his cock. Matt's well aware that he'll probably end up gripping him as hard as he has been gripping the desk. He kind of likes the idea.

“Sure,” Matt says and goes to steal another kiss from Foggy, he wants to taste him. He finds he wants to know everything there is to know about this man. It isn't poetic, he tells himself as Foggy's hand makes its way to his cock. It isn't poetic, because he just likes knowing the way that people work. Because knowing is important.

Foggy sighs into his mouth and the taste of it, the sound of it floods his senses for a moment. And for that moment, everything melts away – the conversations of the street below, the room, his frustration. For a moment there is only Foggy's hand and mouth and cock and a shiver runs through Matt's body.

“Fuck,” the curse is rough as it falls from Matt's lips. Foggy seems to like it, pressing forward and touching him harder, faster. Foggy deepens the kiss and Matt is surprised to find him being so forward now. And for all that he was focused on getting to hear Foggy cry out and lose himself, Foggy seems just as focused on Matt's pleasure.

“Please,” Foggy whines, biting at Matt's lower lip. Foggy's not really sure what he's asking for, but Matt knows, slowing his strokes and making them gentler. Like a kindness. Foggy wants to be the one to bring out kindness in him. The easiest lies to tell were the ones people want to hear. And this? This is exactly what Foggy wants. He comes in Matt's hands just as promised, and Matt is gentle with him as he helps him down off of it. But Foggy doesn't stop touching him, not until he's climaxed too.

Matt slides off the desk and rights himself, tucking his shirt into his pants and making sure everything is all in order. He can hear the way Foggy moves, and there's something more he wants to say but he's not about to push him. He knows in the weeks to come, Foggy is going to act like an embarrassed school boy about all of this. And he's just going to act like nothing at all happened.

But Foggy apparently intends to talk, because he blurts out before Matt leaves, “Stacy's a good cop.”

Matt quirks an eyebrow. He waits to see if there's more.

“I don't know if that's really what you wanted to talk about, or if that was the pretense or if _this_ was the pretense,” it sounds like, from Foggy's tone, he no longer cares. Foggy was the one who had to live with the the fact he'd done this. Matt doesn't really want to be here when his afterglow wears off and Foggy has to start figuring it out. “But he's a good man. He really wants to make a difference in this city.”

Foggy doesn't have it in him to lie usually, and even more so now. The truth is, Matt had forgotten about that. Not entirely, just tabled it until later. He'd had more pressing matters to focus on. But now that Foggy's said it, he's doubly pleased with himself. That he'd gotten so much out of a meeting he was expecting to be kicked out of. He smiles, picking up his cane. “I'll be sure to remember that.”

\- - - 

“Well?” Fisk demands, the next morning.

“Well I didn't kidnap the girl, like you said,” Matt thumbs through the new stack of documents on his desk, casually reading a line here or there with his fingers. Evading. He's being evasive. 

“So you can follow direction after all,” his tone is sharp and biting. It bothers Matt. Not because he's upset about being reprimanded, but because he doesn't know where all this is coming from. He's usually always got the right sense of what Fisk wants. But these last couple of days he's not sure.

“After everything we've been through, I'd thought that would've been obvious.” Gone is the light demeanor he normally wears, his tone flat now to match Fisk's. “And if I had something to tell you, I would've done it already. Patience is a virtue, Wilson.” 

Fisk turns around, crossing the distance between them so he can loom over Matt. It doesn't work as well as he hopes. But then again, that tactic was never going to work on a man without fear. But Matt doesn't let him launch off on whatever words of wisdom he has for him.

“Tell me what's bothering you,” he says instead. Forceful, but submissive. He sets the papers down and looks up in the general direction of Fisk. “I cannot help you if you close yourself off to me. You either trust me or you don't, but I think I've earned better than games at this point.”

It's a calculated risk. Fisk could say no. Fisk could have him punished for speaking out like this. He braces himself for the reply, but Fisk is just quiet for a long moment.

“There are more forces at play than you realize, Matthew,” he says finally. But he has no idea how right he is.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vanessa and Foggy in counterpoint, and then Fisk.

“What’s this about, now?” Vanessa never fails to make him feel like a child being reprimanded. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t like her, why he tries to avoid her. People had always sort of avoided looking at him, even before he’d earned his reputation. (Which was ridiculous! Like looking or not looking at a blind person was going to matter, honestly.) But Vanessa _stared_ at him like maybe she’d figure out how to shape him into a rational adult. Like she wasn’t afraid of him in the slightest. 

“I told you already, I wanted to talk about Wilson,” he wasn’t afraid of Vanessa, either. But that didn’t have anything to do with the way his speech usually was a bit more serious around her. He wasn’t afraid, but he knew Vanessa had more power over Fisk than anyone really wanted to think. He liked to think of himself as good at balancing power. After all, he’d gotten this far, hadn’t he?

Vanessa still does her accounting by hand, despite the perfectly good world of technology. She closes her ledger like it’s a gesture meant to imply how already finished with this conversation she is. Very slowly, she folds her hands together on top of the ledger, sitting up a little straighter as she turns her attention away from her work and points that cold, icy stare at him. He has to admit he admires it a little bit. Vanessa hadn’t been born into this life, either, but she’d made her way into the family way faster than she got credit for. 

“What about Wilson?” her tone remains light, conversational. Her body language might be all on the defensive, suspicious of him and what he wanted but her tone feigns perfectly well that she has no idea where this is going or why he might want to talk. It’s a cute attempt, but Matt can read body language like no other.

“He’s scared,” Matt replies, simply, trying to get his gaze to match hers. It’s not quite right, he’s a little bit off, but he holds it as best as he’s able. It’s a challenge, like they’re two posturing animals trying to see who was going to back down first. “Surely you’ve noticed?” He keeps his tone light, too, but it’s got a dangerous venom underneath, accusing her of not understanding the man she was with.

“Isn’t it your job to keep him safe?” She doesn’t miss a single beat, the words coming from her mouth so easily. He can feel how cocky she’s getting, how proud of herself for the retort. It kind of makes him want to punch her the face. That’s another way she makes him feel like a child. She gets under his skin and makes him want to solve his problems in a childish way.

“So here I am.” He lets the implications settle between them before continuing. “I thought perhaps we could work together.”

He revels in the shock that sets in as he says it, the way she must even show - the way her muscles tense and blood drains from her face. It’s only momentary, but that’s what victories look like between the two of them. These seconds-long slips speak volumes, but he doesn’t let the smile show on his face. Better to be impassive around her than let her know what he really wants from her.

“Oh?” She asks, a light tension clouding her attempts to keep her tone amicable. “And how do you suggest we do that, Matthew?” He opens his mouth to reply, but she has more to say. She cuts him off. “Do you propose we both sleep with my fiancé at once? That’s the kind of comfort you prefer to give him, isn’t it?”

Matt can feel the color drain from his face, the expression as it writes itself out for her to read. He should’ve known Fisk would have said something to her. He shouldn’t be surprised. He shouldn’t let her get to him like this.

Vanessa smiles like a cat who has caught a canary. This is what victories look like between the two of them. 

\- - - 

“Don’t you think we should talk about this?” Foggy Nelson, District Attorney, is following him through the halls of the courthouse, shuffling awkwardly, taking two steps for every one of his. He speaks quiet and rushed as his steps, trying to get Matt to just _listen_ to him. 

Matt knows that Foggy has spent the last week weighing whether or not to talk to him. He imagines that Foggy spent most of the time talking himself up, reminding himself that Matt was a killer, telling himself that most people didn’t think sex was a big deal and certainly _Matt Murdock_ wouldn’t have thought anything of it. 

For the last week, Matt has smelled the frustration in the court, lingering everywhere. It’s not just about Foggy’s cases, he’s well aware. Even when he’s winning there’s this lingering taste of it as he works out with himself what to do. But even for all the internal battles, Foggy hadn’t been able to let him go and now he stays close on his heels.

“Talk about what?” Matt asks, knowing full well Foggy would never say it out loud here. The man was worried enough about someone finding them when they’d been in his empty office. He wasn’t going to let blind justice herself listen into his acts of indecency. Anyway, he could get fired or disbarred if anyone actually knew. Usually when people talked about the law being in bed with the mafia, they didn’t mean it quite so literally.

“You – you know exactly what I’m talking about,” Foggy manages, at last to fall into step next to him, and everything about him seems just short of grabbing Matt and making him stop to talk about it like adults.

Which is exactly why Matt isn’t planning on stopping to chat. “It won’t happen again, Mr. Nelson. If that’s what you’re concerned about.” He almost smiles when he feels the disappointment falling off of Foggy. Good. 

\- - - 

“Surely you’re not surprised?” Vanessa asks, amusement seeping into her voice now that she’s sure she’s got the upper-hand. Her accent shows thicker when she’s letting her emotions lead. It would be almost nice, if she weren’t using it to belittle him. “Did you really think I would not know what you’ve been up to?”

“I don’t know what you’re --” 

“Oh, _please_.” She shakes her head, “I am worth more than your trite denial. You’re not even going to try to apologize?”

“I don’t have anything to apologize for,” but he’s not denying this time. He’s just stating a fact. 

Vanessa laughs at that, cold and bitter, “You think you’re so smart. You think no one sees the way you manipulate him, because you’re always so willing to do whatever you’re told.”

Matt grips his cane a little tighter, knuckles turning white as anger floods into him. He could do it. He could just murder her now and leave her here and make it look like it was anyone. Who wouldn’t have a motive? He could pin on it on the Owl for all he cared and then murder the man at Fisk’s orders and take out two birds with one stone. 

“I could out you to everyone, you know. As terrified as they are of you, there’s not a single one of them who wouldn’t wish to purge the devil out of their circle.”

He could snap her neck or stab her in the chest he could push her off the building he could cut open an artery and let her bleed to death. 

“But I’m not going to. And you know why, Matthew? Because I know you’re important, right where you are.” Her words are triumphant. They’re like daggers cutting into him. And she knows, she knows _exactly_ what she’s doing to him, lording this over him. “You’ve been good to this organization. And whatever small victories you might claim, whatever miniscule things you might change are meaningless in the face of the things he accomplishes with you by his side.” 

Her words are poison, they sink into him. He knows the things he’s done are more than “small victories,” but the way she says it makes him almost believe she’s right. That they are meaningless. He hates her for making him feel this way. He hates himself for letting her get away with it. 

“But the moment you step over the line, the moment you decide to do something that helps no one but yourself? Everyone is going to learn what you’ve done to get yourself where you are.” Vanessa has more she might say, he knows, but she’s holding onto it for later. She doesn’t lay all her cards on the table, doesn’t go in for the killing blow just quite yet.

Matt swallows the anger before it’s able to choke him. He drinks down deep every violent thought and the flashes of how good it would feel just to get it over with. He puts it all away and locks it up tight like he always does, because he can’t afford to let his anger take him over now. Maybe later. Maybe with some poor idiot who won’t know what’s coming to him. He puts on an amicable smile. At least he could go to the gallows with dignity.

“Of course. I’d expect nothing less,” On one level he is conceding. On another, he isn’t at all. He knows she was expecting a fight. She wants him to push back so she can push harder. She wants to rile him up so she has more reason to attack. But he evades. Sometimes the best offense was a good defense. And sometimes offense wasn’t necessary at all. 

\- - - 

“Mr. Murdock, I ...” Foggy could be eloquent in court, but it was gone now. He looks down at his shoes, away from Matt, trying to find something to say. He’d likely expected it to be easier. He’d appeal to Matt, appeal to whatever goodness he thought he’d seen that night and exploit it. But there wasn’t any goodness left in Matt to appeal to.

“I’m a busy man, Mr. Nelson. If there’s something here to discuss, tell me quickly. I have work to do. Billable hours just waiting for me back at the office.” He heads out into the street and Foggy follows him, too.

“Look, I know we’re talking about ethical dilemma on top of ethical dilemma,” Foggy breathes a little easier away from the prying ears of justice, though his tone is still hushed. “But I...” He weighs his options – his pride or his dignity. One of them has to give. “I wouldn’t – I’m not worried about it happening again. I wouldn’t mind having it happen again.”

“You can’t even say what it is out loud,” Matt tells it to him simply, like reminding a child that he’s not old enough to sit with the adults at the table, for obvious reasons.

“I wouldn’t mind having sex with you again,” Foggy says, rushed and quick and like he might not get the words out before he thinks better of it, “I know it doesn’t have to mean anything. I – I mean, you probably don’t want it to mean anything. And it doesn’t have to? But I - -” 

“Counselor, you’re rambling.” 

“You could come over some time,” Foggy tries, a little lamely. He doesn’t expect to get an answer. “If you wanted. If you – It might be nice. Nicer. Nicer than my office.” He stops walking, waiting for Matt to give him an answer. Waiting because they both know his office is in the other direction from here and he’s out of excuses for following.

All Matt says is, “I’ll take it under advisement.” 

\- - -

“ _Fuck_!” Matt bites at the pillow underneath him to keep from yelling out any further, his fingers gripping the sheets entirely too tightly. He’s sweating hard, breathing hard, pinned underneath Fisk’s weight as he pounds into him.

“You’re fine,” Fisk tells him though it sounds more like an order than a reassurance, his voice thick and his breathed labored, too. “No one’s going to – no one’s going to hear.” He kisses Matt’s ear, his jaw, his neck. Matt knows there’s something very specific that Fisk gets out of handling a man who could kill without a care. That Matt was dangerous and skilled and talented and _his_ to touch how he liked.

“Don’t stop, please - -” Matt knows Fisk hardly needs to be asked, but the man clearly wants him talking and they’re as good of words as any. Fisk clearly thinks so, in any case, laying into him harder, deeper. He’s so tight that every movement seems to stretch him out more. He’d done a rushed job of it, had wanted to stop thinking so much, to stop worrying about all the loose ends that didn’t add up. In his own way, Fisk is a welcome reassurance on top of him, filling up all of his senses and narrowing down everything to just the two of them. He could lose himself to this. It would be a bad idea, but he could do it.

“Beg, Matthew,” Fisk tells him, sliding his hands to cover Matt’s own. Not to hold them, but to stop him from being able to move them. To keep him from touching Fisk. To keep him from touching himself. “Beg me not to stop.”

“Please, I need - - I need this. I need to feel you,” and it’s not really a lie. Nothing was as cut and dry as Vanessa had put it. He hates that he thinks of her now, when that’s exactly the kind of thought he wants to avoid. He wonders if Fisk told her or if she just knew or she knew and pressed him. He doesn’t want to think about her. About whatever conversations they do or don’t have. “Harder,” he grunts out, pressing his hands against Fisk’s as if testing his grip.

“What was that?” Fisk snaps, an edge to his voice.

“I said, ‘harder,’” Matt replies, ignoring the edge, ignoring the threat. “So I can really feel you.” It’s not begging, it’s not what Fisk wants or asked him for.

But Fisk makes good on the threat. He stops moving, just like he said he was going to, his cock flush inside of Matt. He presses down against him hard, lets go of his right hand to take a fist-full of Matt’s hair and slam his face into a pillow, holding him down against it. Matt can feel Fisk counting, counting the seconds he keeps Matt suffocating. Matt holds his breath and counts, too, trying not to struggle. They get to ten. Fisk yanks him back roughly.

“What did you say to me?” He asks again, calmer but still dangerous.

“I want you - -” Matt breathes hard, compensating for the breath he’d missed. “I want - -” 

This time Fisk cuts him off. “You want me to hurt you, isn’t that it?” He holds onto Matt by his hair, pulling him back so his back is arched beautifully, so he’s whispering into Matt’s ear. Matt can feel him that much more, every extra centimeter that Fisk takes up is such an obvious movement to him. It’s hard and deep and it hurts and it’s _perfect._

“Yes,” he doesn’t mean for it to fall from his mouth like a moan, but it does. He’s never said it out loud, never really admitted it to himself but Fisk knows and he pulls it from his lips like he’s always been the one with the upper-hand. Like Matt really is completely at his mercy. He’d always built it up to seem that way, but having it be reality feels completely different. “Hurt me.”

Fisk laughs short but fond. He keeps his tight hold on Matt, keeps him pulled close as he starts slamming his hips into Matt again. His skin feels alight, like Fisk has found a way to tap into his nerves, everywhere, everything feels so raw and needy. Fisk is hot around him, and his grip pulls at his scalp and his back hurts from being kept in this position but he cries out, every noise a plea for more and Fisk knows it.

God, he can already feel the bruises forming on his hips and he relishes them. They’d done this several times now, but not once before had he had the sense that Fisk understood what he needed out of this. And maybe he still didn’t, but it didn’t matter when his world was all pain and fire and this man was giving him everything he needed – not to think, not to wander with every sound and every smell but to be completely grounded in _this_.

“Please,” Matt grabs onto Fisk’s hand where it covers his own and squeezes it tight, like the motion might spur on more still. Fisk smiles, grip tight as iron as he holds fast, fucking him as hard as he can through a few more strokes before he comes. He stills on top of him, letting him go. Matt falls against the bed, but he hasn’t been able to get the same relief and he moves, awkwardly, like he might be able to get his hand underneath himself. “Please, let me.”

“Why should I let you?” Fisk doesn’t move to get off of him or pull out. Matt wouldn’t even care if he just left, honestly, because he’d be able to touch himself after. But as it is, there isn’t anything he can do but be at the mercy of Fisk’s words. They both know that’s part of what he needs, too. 

“I’ve been good to you – I’ve been good for you,” Matt tries to keep his voice even but the words come out quickly all the same. Like he’s pleading for his life, instead of asking for permission. 

“I’ve given you plenty.” There’s an edge, but it’s feigned. It’s harder for Fisk to keep up the game in the afterglow. It’s a relief to hear it, when Matt feels like he’s fit to burst.

“I need this,” he plays it up, but there’s an obvious truth behind it, too. They both get what they want – Fisk gets him begging, Matt figures out the right way to get what he wants.

Fisk makes him wait, just a little longer. He’d appreciate it, if he weren’t so hard and could think straight, but he’s out of his mind and it’s perfect and he needs him. Fisk lets go of him and slides his hand underneath them to touch Matt, a touch that’s too hard and too rough when he’s so overly sensitive like this. He loves it. He loses it quickly.

\- - - 

“Matthew, I wanted to thank you.” Fisk hasn’t left yet. Matt isn’t quite sure why, or what he’s trying to thank him for but he’s fixing him a drink all the same. If Wilson Fisk wanted to stay a few more hours or even the whole night, who was he to say no?

“Alright, you’re welcome,” Matt replies, handing him the glass. He moves to sit next to him on the bed. He’s tired. His body is tired and his mind is heavy with all of the things weighing on it, but he doesn’t show it. 

“You haven’t even asked what for,” Fisk takes a drink, pauses. Waits. Waits for Matt to ask, but he doesn’t. He knows Fisk will say his piece when he’s ready. “The other day, when you told me to be honest with you. I hadn’t realized...I hadn’t realized just how much I needed to be able to voice my concerns.”

“Oh,” says Matt. He takes a drink too. He can feel the honesty radiating off of Fisk next to him. This is more than some simple statement, more than acknowledging the sex or talking about business. What Fisk was telling him now was important to him. 

“There are so few people I can trust. I am fortunate to have you,” Fisk sighs heavily. These are sobering thoughts, even in whatever post-coital bliss he might’ve had. “You’ve stayed by my side through things...through so many things.” He reaches over to put his hand on Matt’s knee. The honesty is obvious in his touch, in his tone. Nothing is more concerning to Matt than when Wilson Fisk is honest to him. But this time it’s different. He isn’t concerned that Fisk might decide better of this, or that he might be getting ahead of himself. This time he knows this is exactly what the man means. They’re not emotions he’s ready to unpack. 

But the lie comes as easily as ever, all the same. “I’ll always be here for you.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistakes are made, but the consequences are not always immediately obvious.

Matt Murdock has several problems. They’re not the kind of problems he can just meditate away, not the kinds of things he can think his way into caring less. And the biggest, most glaringly obvious of all of them was Wilson Fisk. It wasn’t just that The Hand had asked him to dismantle the man’s empire, although that most certainly played into it. He hated that he’d come to want his attention, and hated the way he felt when he didn’t get it. But right now, what he hated most was his _honesty_ , the lingering affect of which he could still feel everywhere.

“You’ve got the wrong man, I swear!” Oh, right. Aleksei. He’s got the man cornered into a dark alley, which he understands makes it seem especially sketchy. Mostly it’s just advantageous, and he’s pretty sure no one is going to call the cops in aid for Aleksei Systevich. Aleksei’s heart is pounding, running fast, terrified just as intended to be in this alleyway. Especially to be in this alleyway with Matt. His fingers scrape up against the wall and it sounds like nails against a chalkboard to Matt’s hearing and he kind of wants to murder him just for that.

“Oh? Enlighten me, then. You’re not skimming from your share? Who is taking the money then, Aleksei?” He picks up his cane and runs his hand along it, feeling along all the little catches and triggers for his weapons. The threat is implied. It’s obvious. He grins, the sinister smile spreading across his face slowly. His calm was such a stark contrast to the way Aleksei’s fear echoed in his ears. His composure perfect and perfectly happy to be in this situation. Maybe it was wrong, being so perfectly at home instead of threats and violence, but Matt clearly wasn’t about to start questioning the morality of the situation.

“I don’t know! But it isn’t me. You gotta believe me, Murdock, I wouldn’t – I know what Fisk does to people who steal from him.” But he’s lying. Matt can hear it with every irregular beat of his pulse. _Lying, lying, lying._ If only Aleksei knew how obvious his tells were. If only he understood how utterly powerless he was against a guy like Matt Murdock.

There’s a light _click_ as Matt slides out one of the knives. Aleksei’s heart beats faster. He’s sweating hard, the salt so heavy in the air Matt can taste it. “Are you sure about that?” He doesn’t really want Aleksei to answer honestly, though. He’d rather the man continue to lie. Meditation maybe couldn’t get Fisk’s touch out of his head, but violence certainly could. Violence thrived in this world they all operated in and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it. It was second nature to him, now, a comfort in a place no one should find it. How else would he be able to live this life, though? To do the things he’d done? How else would he have been fine murdering Le Chat Noir or any of the countless things he’d done for Fisk since then?

Aleksei opens his mouth to speak, but stops like he can’t force the lie out. For all that he is strong, he knows with Matt it won’t matter. He knows of those unspeakable things Matt has done, where the rumors say that he doesn’t even care. So Aleksei tries frantically to find something else to say, find some way that he can appeal to Matt. No one really knows how to do that. No one knows Matt well enough to understand which things might garner favor. 

“I have a family,” Aleksei says instead, a weakness to his voice that doesn’t match the sound of his body. It sounds like a last ditch attempt. It almost sounds like he’s begging. It would be better if he had been.

Matt makes a noise like he’s admonishing him and slides the blade back into his cane. “Don’t you know how pathetic that sounds?” And then, without warning he backhands him hard across the face. It’s like hitting a cement brick but the strike hits true all the same and he can smell the blood in Aleksei’s mouth. The blood is followed by surprise, a man who isn’t used to being hit and even less used to the hit having consequence. “I understand, I do. Mercenaries aren’t asked to be smart, they’re asked to be precise. But when you’re asked by Mr. Fisk to do a job, there’s no part of that contract that allows you to take what belongs to him for yourself.”

Aleksei growls and then lunges for him. Matt simply steps out of the way and laughs as the man grabs for nothing. He wants to cut loose and fight back. He could beat Aleksei to nothing and take him back to Fisk and – _goddamn it_. What was he? A cat who brings back dead mice to his master to show off? It’s an endless feedback loop, trying to run away from this problem and then running right back headfirst into it. Trying to push himself away from the thought of his growing reliance on Fisk’s attitude towards him and yet still wanting to garner his praise. He’s so angry at himself for getting caught up in all of it, so angry that it’s come back around again when all he wanted to forget and he lashes out anyway, a swift kick to Aleksei’s lower back that sends the bigger man sprawling to the ground. 

“I only took a little cut! Fisk barely pays!” Ah, there it was. The confession. It’s all he needs. He brings his foot down against Aleksei’s neck and presses down, cutting off whatever else was coming next and Aleksei sputters, tries to lash out at him. Matt grabs his hand and breaks his fingers. For a moment, it feels like trying to break lead pipes but after he puts enough pressure against him the bone cracks all the same, just as easily as anyone else’s. 

Aleksei Systevich _screams_ and it’s beautiful, music to Matt’s ears. There’s no one but the two of them here, no one else that got to hear this. True, he could’ve brought some of his ninja friends from The Hand but he was sort of kind of maybe avoiding them right now. And more importantly, this was much more satisfying. Better that he get to be the one to break bones and draw blood. Better that he get to solve his problems with violence where no one is here to judge him if he goes too far too exacts a retribution that doesn’t fit the crime. And Aleksei? Whatever story he would tell afterward would only be a credit to Matt’s reputation. There’s no losing in this scenario. 

“What was that? I don’t think I quite understood,” Matt grins, and steps off of him. It’s no fun when they don’t fight back. Always about the chase, never about the killing blow. Aleksei scrambles to his feet and lunges again, crashing into the wall of one of the buildings instead of Matt. It’s almost comical how easily Matt evades him. The smell of blood is immediate – copper and sweet and intoxicating and he can taste it in the air sure as the adrenaline and the fear and the anger. They’re all good to him. This was the part he lived for.

Aleksei turns around and Matt hits him hard against his stomach with his cane, hard enough on anyone else it would’ve broken flesh but all it does is wind Aleksei. He follows it up with a few choice punches, relentless until they too connect and draw blood. Relentless until he has satisfaction. He gets him with his back pinned against the wall and he’s so close to him and he knows just how uncomfortable it makes Aleksei. Like Matt might do anything to him. Sometimes the anxiety of the imagination was better than the execution. 

“Do you know what I love, Aleksei?” Matt asks, a rhetorical question, voice still calm and cool and collected. Aleksei is shaking where he stands. He’s trying not to. He’s trying to be strong, he’s probably thinking about fighting back. But he also knows what Matt is capable of. He knows what Matt has done for Fisk. “I love teaching. Giving back to those who just haven’t quite learned.” He pulls out one of the blades from his cane. Every movement is silent, quick. He stabs Aleksei’s shoulder before the other man even realizes he’s armed. Aleksei screams again and Matt just laughs. Laughs, has he pulls out the blade and the blood drips off of it. 

“I love fixing relationships. Reminding people where they belong.” Matt presses the blade against Aleksei’s face, only enough pressure to draw the thinnest trail of blood. A precision a normal blind man wouldn’t have, but Aleksei is already in this far too deep to even consider that. “And I love knowing that at the end of all this? You and Mr. Fisk will fix everything and continue to have a strong and fruitful relationship. So you’ll be able to keep providing for your family.” 

Aleksei Systevich faints. Which is a shame, Matt decides, because there was so much more they could have done, but it just isn’t fun anymore once they’re not awake to scream.

\- - -

“You smell like - - like an alley hobo,” Foggy stammers out as he opens the door. “Are you bleeding? It looks like you’re bleeding.”

“Well you smell like the corner deli if it had just taken a trip to a dive bar, but you don’t hear me complaining.” Beat. “Can I come in or not?”

Foggy Nelson (reluctantly, a reluctance that Matt can tell is only feigned) opens up the door for him. He ushers him inside and pretends not to be offended by his comment. His heart is racing. He’s maybe had an extra drink too many tonight. Mostly, he seems really shocked that Matt actually took him up on coming over and he seems to be wondering if he should regret it. Part of him hopes that isn’t Matt’s blood. Part of him hopes it is, so he won’t have to turn him into the cops.

“Where’s the bathroom? I’ll wash off the hobo-stench,” Matt doesn’t have any of Foggy’s hang ups. Not about coming over, not about the blood. He enters the apartment as soon as Foggy opens the door.

“It’s, um, take a right? And the second door. I can lead you there, if you want.” Foggy sounds like he doesn’t know if it’s more offensive to offer or not to offer. It would probably be endearing to anyone else. Matt just shakes his head and follows the direction. He doesn’t really try to pretend he can’t.

Foggy’s right, though, he’s still covered in Aleksei’s blood. He closes the door behind himself and washes it out. He can’t see it, but he can feel it and smell it and that’s honestly probably better. He knows exactly where it is, can feel acutely every inch of skin that’s stained with it. He can feel it under his fingernails and against his knuckles, can smell it on the knife and on his handkerchief. He wants it gone probably as bad as Foggy does, at this point. Aleksei wasn’t the best smelling person in the world to stat with. It wasn’t something he wanted lingering on himself for the rest of eternity.

“Mr. Murdock? Do you want some help?” Foggy calls from the other room. The concern kind of annoys him, but mostly because he knows this isn’t where he should be. He should have gone back to Fisk and told him what happened. He should check in with the Hand or at least write them some sloppy letter pretending things were on the right track. There were so many loose ends, so many things he should be taking care of that he’s not handling. But this was the decision he made. Washing up in Foggy Nelson’s bathroom. 

“I’m fine,” he calls back. Would it matter to Fisk, if he found out that Matt was “seeing” the District Attorney? Was that even what he was doing? This was only the second time he’d sought him out, which was to say, it wasn’t even a pattern. But even if it was, didn’t he have that right? Fisk had Vanessa. If Matt wanted to spend time with someone else who wasn’t Fisk, then what could Fisk say about that?

(But it’s different, says a voice he doesn’t want to listen to. It’s different and he knows it.)

Matt turns off the taps and walks back into the hallway, jacket over his arm and tie loosened. The blood is gone. The smell is mostly gone too, replaced by some lightly scented soap that’s probably something like “ocean breeze” or “clean laundry.” Foggy is still standing in the middle of his living room. His heart picks up a beat when he sees Matt. “Why did you stop by? I mean, surely there are other sinks in New York.”

“Are there?” Matt asks with a laugh. He sets his jacket down on the sofa and moves closer, closer until he’s close enough to Foggy to kiss him. Foggy really does smell like pastrami and beer and it’s a little off putting and a little endearing. “I thought I had a standing invitation to this one.”

“You do!” Foggy says almost too quickly, which he immediately recognizes and tries to fix. “Not just to the sink. Also to the sink, if you need it. But the invitation wasn’t for that, it was more for. Well, for other things.”

“Other things?” Matt quirks an eyebrow as a smile plays on his lips. He knows exactly which other things. He just wants to hear Foggy say it out loud.

Foggy hesitates. His heart races. He knows they’re both grown men, both capable of saying things out loud. He’s already gone over the ethical dilemmas. He doesn’t _need_ to be shy any more, but he is. He wishes he weren’t. “Sex, mostly. I could cook you dinner, too, but...”

“I like the sound of that,” the reply is easy, not giving into the way Foggy trails off. Not giving into his awkwardness. He slides his hands down Foggy’s sides and rests them on his hips. “Why don’t you tell me how you’d like that to go?”

Foggy opens his mouth to say something, but it doesn’t quite make it to his lips. He seems so surprised at his good fortune that Matt decided to come over, decided to stay. Somewhere underneath it Matt can hear the mild anxiety about the blood, the way Foggy tries to fight it off. The way Foggy clearly his trying to reconcile his desire with his caution.

Foggy is soft under his fingers, even through the poor-quality wool of his suit. He licks his lips like that might help him figure out what he was going to say, and it instantly reminds Matt of the taste of his tongue in his mouth.’ Foggy blushes, the warmth running to his face but also to his crotch as he finally decides he’s going to speak. “I’d like to take you back to bed,” he says finally, keeping his eyes trained on Matt for the first sign that he’s upset him in some way by suggesting it. 

Matt isn’t, though, he moves his hands from Foggy’s hips and offers his arm. “Why don’t you lead the way, then?”

Foggy practically leaps at the offer, taking Matt’s arm and heading down the hallway to his bedroom. It’s clearly strange to him, to be offered the chance to decide how it was going to go. Or maybe that was just just because it was Matt Murdock, a man he never thought he’d ever get another chance with, especially not after their last conversation. He just seems so honestly ecstatic that they’re doing this, which, if Matt were being honest, has its own foreign feeling to it. It’s not that he doubts that has previous partners enjoyed all the things they did, but Foggy’s reaction isn’t wrapped up in other agendas or falsities. Foggy is all honesty and his happiness far outweighs whatever anxiety was left about them meeting, but even the light anxiety is refreshing in its own way. 

There’s a rawness to it that he likes, Matt decides, as Foggy guides him to the bed and lets go of him. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks approximately towards his face. He can see it with his radar sense, but it’s easier not to try and concentrate to make eye contact. It’s easier to keep up pretense, sometimes. For all of Foggy’s honesty, he doesn’t do him the same courtesy. Foggy should’ve expected that from the start, though, it doesn’t really bother Matt. Why should he be anyone but himself around this man?

“Why don’t you lie on your back?” Foggy asks, clearly still getting used to articulating these things instead of just letting them happen organically. Matt loves the waver in his voice – part nerves, but mostly excitement – as he speaks. Maybe more than beating up Aleksei, this was what he really needed.

Or both. It was probably both.

“Before getting naked? That might impede a few things,” he grins, cheeky. Foggy groans.

“No, not – here, I’ll help.” Foggy moves closer to Matt to help him out of his clothes. His hands shake a little with anticipation, but Matt doesn’t try to stop him. It’s nice, letting Foggy undress him. He’s clearly trying not to think about the blood in Matt’s shirt. He’s trying only to think of the skin underneath.

Matt sits still for him as Foggy removes all of his clothes. He lets Foggy take his time, he runs his fingers along Matt’s skin and feels the scars on his body. “Do they hurt?” Foggy asks, but Matt shakes his head. He knows the question Foggy really wants to ask is _how did you get them_ , but Foggy doesn’t dare to ask a question that personal and break the spell between them.

For all that Foggy took his time with Matt, unwrapping him little by little, he sheds off his own clothes in a flash. He’s embarrassed, Matt can feel the way the heat of it spreads through his body even against the cold of the room. “Okay,” Foggy says.

“Okay,” replies Matt.

Foggy stares at him for a moment, waiting for something else but Matt says nothing. “Lie down?” Foggy asks, after a moment. Matt acquiesces. Foggy climbs on top of him. He just stares at him for a moment, this incredible sight of Matt Murdock in his bed and underneath him. He reaches up to cup Matt’s cheek and his heart his pounding and his hand is shaking. “Can I take your glasses off?” Matt nods. It’s such an easy request. Foggy makes it sound like it’s so important, and maybe it is. It is to Foggy, at least. Foggy acts like he’s disarming Matt, when that isn’t what he’s doing at all. But it’s advantageous. Let Foggy think he’s doing some trusting and intimate. Let Foggy think whatever he wants. He’s probably earned it, letting Matt use him like this.

Foggy would never refer to it like that, though. Matt knows that, too.

After he takes off Matt’s glasses, Foggy can’t help but gasp quietly when he sees Matt’s eyes. It doesn’t sound afraid, or even really startled. Matt can hear something different in it, something like admiration. He’s heard the sound before, like patrons in an art gallery. Maybe that’s a little conceited. He doesn’t care. But Foggy doesn’t say anything more, anyway. As if he’s too scared to comment on it, still. He’s unsure of where the two of them stand. He’s too scared to cross proverbial lines in the sand.

He leans forward to kiss him, anyway. Slow but steady. He dips his tongue into Matt’s mouth like he’s testing the waters. Matt hums happily and lets him in. He can feel all the unanswered questions Foggy has, but appreciates that he doesn’t ask them. Appreciates that he can have this for what it is. The questions would come another time, he’s sure, but maybe he’ll be more equipped to handle them then. He’s certainly not equipped to handle them now.

“I want you to fuck me,” Matt says, when they pull apart.

“Okay,” Foggy replies, his voice more sure now, which surprises Matt. In a good way. “I can do that.”

When Foggy fingers him open, his fingers are gentle. He stays close to Matt like he’s listening for any movement that sounds pained or any indication that he should stop, but he doesn’t treat Matt like he’s not capable of doing this. For all his heart races, his fingers stay steady. His body is so warm against Matt’s. Foggy is warmth and gentleness and kindness. He is so many things that so often the people in Matt’s circles aren’t. Sometimes he convinces himself that no one really knows how to be those things, but Foggy is different.

It’s not something he could ever want permanently, not a kind of happiness that he is suited for any longer. But it is pleasant, all the same, to be near it. A stranger in a foreign land partaking in its pleasures.

As it turns out, Foggy Nelson knows a lot more about pleasure than Matt would’ve expected. When at last he slides into him, Matt gasps happily. Foggy holds him close with gentle hands. He kisses his lips, his collarbone, his neck. Every kiss is careful not to leave marks, but deliberate all the same.

Foggy rocks his hips against him, slow and giving him time to get used to it. Matt hardly needs it, but he can feel how much it means to Foggy to treat him right. If this were reversed, Matt would’ve pinned him down and taken him fast and hard. Matt’s sure Foggy would’ve liked that all the same, but this? It’s so obvious how much Foggy cares, even about a man he shouldn’t care for. It’s so obvious how much Foggy wishes there could be emotion.

Matt lets him pretend, at least for tonight. Why shatter the illusion?

What surprises Matt the most is Foggy’s stamina. He’d been so quick to finish when Matt had given him the handjob in his office, but now that he sets the tone he’s able to take his time. The stroke of Foggy’s hips is slow and constant, filling Matt so perfectly every time he slides back in. Being with Foggy makes him lose track of time. Being with Foggy makes that feel okay.

After Foggy comes inside of him he wraps his hand around Matt’s cock to finish him, faster than he’d been fucking him. Matt arches up into his hands and clings onto him, the smell of sweat and cum heavy between them and he loves it. He kisses Foggy’s neck, biting him. Foggy might’ve been trying not to leave marks, but Matt bites him anyway. Holds tight with his teeth and hands until he comes, moaning loudly. He stays close to Foggy for a little while longer. They stay close to each other, limbs entwined, sticky and panting and out of breath. Matt runs his fingers through Foggy’s hair and touches him everywhere, like he’s his to touch as he pleases.

Eventually, inevitably, he leaves. Foggy wishes he didn’t have to, but he doesn’t sound as disappointed as Matt expects him to. Foggy is optimistic that Matt will come back.

\- - -

Back at home, Matt washes off blood and sweat and the smell of Foggy Nelson. The shower does him good, the sound of it dampens the outside world, the water surrounds him and makes him warm and helps him focus in on himself. Focus on all of the problems he has to solve. Vanessa. Fisk. The Hand. Foggy.

He tells himself it isn’t as bad as it seems. That every step he takes is in the right direction. Foggy could lead him to Stacy. Stacy could help him take down Fisk. Vanessa he could get rid of at any time. And beating up Aleksei ? That only endeared him to Fisk in the meantime.

When all was said and done, he knew his orders and he knew what was expected of him. If he was asked to balance all the pieces of crime together, he would do it. He could become the Kingpin and lead the Hand. Fisk and his honesty be damned. What had Fisk sacrificed for him? Fisk didn’t even keep secrets from Vanessa, and that was a liability to everything.

Vanessa was a liability. Their talk still lingered with him, the wound still fresh and his anger still burns under the surface. Vanessa would get what was coming to her, and personal vengeance would be ten times more satisfying than what he’d exacted on Aleksei. Aleksei had done the wrong thing at the wrong time. _Vanessa_ had offended him.

He lets the water roll over him and starts to formulate plans. There was only one way to move and that was always forward. He’d figure out how to be okay with Fisk. He’d figure out how to move past whatever stupidities were causing him to care so much about him. He could bring him down same as he’d done any person before him. That was what had to be done. It was what would be done.

One step at a time. He calls Wilson Fisk to tell him the good news about his wayward mercenary.

\- - - 

“Thank you for taking care of Aleksei in such a timely matter,” Fisk smooths his hands along Matt’s thighs. Matt is perched up on his desk. It feels a little silly. It probably looks a little silly. But also Fisk’s hands are strong and firm and he likes it all the same. “If all our problems could be solved that way, how easy it would be to take care of New York.”

“If it were easy, any man could do it,” Matt replies, his tone coated with honey. Fisk approves. He starts unbuttoning Matt’s shirt. Matt never gets tired of the visual pleasure others get from being with him. There’s always feedback, always tells. It’s not just that he thinks he must be handsome, it’s that he knows. Knows from the way people touch him and the way their hearts race and the way they smell. It never gets old. The way that Fisk treats him never gets old.

Sometimes, he wishes it would, but he’s been with Fisk too long now to be able to set aside his desire to please him. His desire to be touched by him. Even knowing what he has to do, it’s never changed. Even working towards his goals, there is still this man, and no plan, no matter how well thought out was going to change that attitude over night. 

Anyway, Fisk didn’t have to know about the ways he was coping with all this needless drama, although he isn’t quite sure if that’s the right word for it. Coping made it sound like he was grieving, but that wasn’t at all what he was doing. They seemed more like avoidance tactics. 

But they weren’t necessarily _bad_ ones, he decides, which is another in the series of mistakes he’s made today. He’s not ready to see it that way. He’s gone so long making such calculated moves, never letting his precious control slip from his fingers, but the way things have been going have turned him reckless. Too bad he’s never been one to shy from recklessness. Man without fear, remember? 

So what did it matter if he slept with Fisk one more time? If he could be the object of Foggy’s kindness and care and not immediately wish to roll over and pledge his life to a life of good, so too could he continue this physical relationship he had going with Fisk.

He would work it all out eventually. Anyway, it was better to keep his attention than let it stray if he wants this all to work out properly.

(The best lies are always the ones you tell yourself.)

Matt shrugs off his coat and his shirt, pressing into Fisk’s hands. They’re warm and they’re strong and he likes knowing there’s as much blood on those hands as on his own. Likes the danger, same as Fisk does. That they can handle so much power in their hands, between them. That he can play this man same as he can play anyone else.

Fisk kisses his neck and it occurs to him he’s lucky that Foggy is so gentle. Lucky that he didn’t try to leave any marks on his skin. It’s not something he’s entirely sure he’d remember to keep track of, in the throws of passion. It’s not like visible marks on his skin would seem any different than the ones that lurked just beneath the surface. Warm to the touch, a coppery, pleasant smell (although he’s maybe the only person who’d find it actually pleasant) but they were often wrapped up in the smell of other things, other reminders of what happened. Fisk, though, his kisses are hard and almost territorial. He knows far too well by now what Matt wants from him. Which is fine, because Fisk wants to give it. Matt would never be able to take anything Fisk didn’t want to give, or at least Matt is sure that’s what the man tells himself.

Fisk smooths his hand down Matt’s skin, along past his abs and to the button of his pants. He keeps one arm around Matt’s waist like he’s balancing him, like Matt is this gentle creature that needs to be held on to. No, maybe that’s not it, maybe like he’s flighty and he’ll leave if he isn’t tethered down. It hardly matters. His touch lights up Matt’s skin and it makes him feel alive. He fumbles with the button and the zipper but undoes them both and gets his hand inside Matt’s pants, past his underwear, and around his cock. Matt breathes out a long and happy sigh. He bares his neck for Fisk as he kisses him, and as he touches him. He revels in it.

“When did you tell Vanessa?” Matt asks quite suddenly and Fisk freezes, like he’s been caught in the middle of something awful. Matt remains calm, despite the hand around him. Despite the fear anyone else would ask even attempting a question like that.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fisk responds. He pulls away from Matt’s neck to look at him, try to find out why this is coming up and why _now_ of all times. Matt can feel him searching his face. He listens to his heartbeat, trying to detect the lie but the surprise is loud and overwhelming. Surprise and a hint of anxiety and something like a lie. It’s too mixed up in everything else. Maybe Fisk doesn’t really know. Maybe he does.

“Funny, because she definitely knows and I’d like to think there’s no one else who would be able to share that information with her.” There’s a pause, dramatic effect, of course, and very much like they’re having this conversation doing literally anything else than what they’re actually doing right now, “Unless there’s someone else in the picture. I’d be happy to murder them for you.”

Fisk’s emotions curl and uncurl around him, the shock sets into anger the anger into frustration the frustration into – he squeezes his hand around Matt and it takes all of his good ninja training not to pull away from him but he manages to keep his cool. He was the one who’d made the choice to tell him now of all times. He was going to have to live with decision. 

“I didn’t tell her,” Fisk’s voice is quiet, calculated. Like he’s struggling not to shoot the messenger.

“Are you suggesting she learned by osmosis? Maybe she smelled it on you --” 

“Shut up, Matthew, I’m trying to think.”

“And I’m positing theories.”

“I don’t want your theories,” Fisk snaps, but he doesn’t really have anywhere to look but Matt’s bare chest and maybe the absurdity of the situation hits him a little bit in that moment. The absurdity that Matt chose now to bring it up. That he wants to talk about it. “What I choose to do is none --” he stops, looking away. He swallows thickly. Somewhere on the other side of the anger, Matt can feel the guilt. Fisk must have it pretty bad for Vanessa. It occurs to him this might have been a bigger mistake that he thought, if that’s really the case. But it was – and is – important for him to gauge how much of a threat Vanessa is. Or maybe all it was all just left over recklessness from earlier. Maybe at least he could get this poor decision making out of his system. 

Fisk clears his throat. “What I choose to do is none of her business,” he says with some finality. It wavers in a way normal hearing could not pick up. It wavers in a way he knows Fisk does not mean.

“Then maybe you can choose to finish what you started,” Matt grins, trying to catch Fisk’s lips for a kiss. He misses a little, but that’s intentional. Fisk responds by pushing him down against the desk. Anger, though clearly not at Matt, courses through him. Maybe it’ll make Fisk a little reckless, too, and that’s just as well in Matt’s book.

\- - -

There is a very particular feeling that accompanies knowing someone has been in one’s home. As if the walls themselves whisper their anxiety. Nothing is askew, nothing moved but Matt _knows_ all the same, from the second he puts the key in the doorway that it’s been disturbed. He moves silently, stealthily as he listens to the sound in his apartment and tries to gauge whether or not anyone was still there. But if they were, they’d have to have incredible training. For a moment he wonders if it’s a member of the Hand come to drag him back to Japan to answer to his master why things weren’t going quicker. It’s a momentary consideration. One that he barely takes seriously.

In any case, he’s alone. He searches for some kind of evidence of who had been there before, or what they’d left behind. In his bedroom on the dresser there’s an envelope. He recognizes the feel of the paper instantly. 

“I know you’re a thousands of years old organization, but we have invented telephones,” Matt says aloud as he picks it up and opens the envelope. “And it takes many generations to grow a tree! Seeds, with even the best tending, cannot grow without time.” It’s just bullshit, but he’s pretty sure he could pass it off as monk wisdom if he was playing dungeons and dragons. Just as a thought.

But if his ninja friends in the Hand are listening, they make no indication of it. No response comes, just the sounds of New York outside the window. The couple fighting upstairs. He pulls out the letter, sighs exasperatedly for no one, and runs his fingers along the ink of the writing. It isn’t an admonishment. It isn’t a letter asking for updates or calling him back. It says nothing of Wilson Fisk or of his criminal network.

_Find Cindy Moon_.

Matt’s brow furrows and he reads it again, like he’s picked up something wrong in the kanji. _Cindy Moon_. Who the fuck was Cindy Moon? And why did the Hand suddenly care about her way more than the cared about Fisk? There’s nothing else, no other indication. It feels like a test, which feels like a cheap trick. 

What was one more loose end to carry? One more plot to have to unravel? He was Matt Murdock. He could handle anything.


End file.
